


This Is Where They Sleep

by monstersinthecosmos



Category: Vampire Chronicles - Anne Rice
Genre: M/M, PWP, Rimming, blowjob, gross lmao, handjob, i'm a troll sorry, swamp!lestat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-18
Updated: 2018-03-18
Packaged: 2019-04-04 01:17:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14009022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monstersinthecosmos/pseuds/monstersinthecosmos
Summary: Lestat shows up looking all gross and Antoine reminisces about sexier times.





	This Is Where They Sleep

**Author's Note:**

> SO I wrote this listening to the Bioshock soundtrack, so as an homage we're naming the fic after [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nE_oDn5ibko). And [this is the song Antoine is playing!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nlu2z2gkhhI)
> 
> It was also heavily inspired by Lucas King's [Dark Piano for Dark Thoughts](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lnMFj5DYxwI&list=PL1xZGrjD-9RsU6ONb79yc3VCIFhbjJfgG).

 

By the third night he was feeling a cold, gripping anxiety at dusk. Once the sun was down beneath the city he knew he’d hear the voice again.

The sky was rosy and he drew himself back towards the corner of the room, away from the windows. He’d pulled the curtains closed and barred the door but didn’t think it would help. Still, it was something tangible he could do, something that gave him the last shred of control.

 _Antoine, Antoine, Antoine_.

The voice would start soon, any minute now, always a desperate mantra. It would rise with the raucous noise of the Rue Dumaine outside, mix with the sounds of the drunkards in the streets, but it always sounded so _close_. He wasn’t sure how much more he could take--he was losing the strength to resist it. And he wasn’t sure which idea was more frightening--that the voice was his own, that his mind was dissolving in the ugly humidity, or that it was… something else.

His hands were shaking too hard around the wine bottle and he uncorked it with his teeth. The first taste of it was too frantic, frenzied, and it splashed down his chin. It stained the front of his shirt.

 _Antoine_.

“Please stop,” he said out loud to the room. He took a deeper drink of wine and pressed the palm of his hand to his eye. “Please stop.”

 _I’m here now, Antoine_.

He was screwing his eyes shut against the way they burned, and it was getting hard to breathe. His clothes felt itchy all over.

_Let me in, I’m here now._

The tapping at the door wasn’t loud, it wasn’t a fist. Nails, maybe. Scratching. Soft, and if he weren’t so scared it might sound gentle. He looked up to see the shadow pass beneath the door--the vague shape of feet.

“Who’s there?”

_It’s me, Antoine._

He pressed his hands to the wood floor and tried to crawl further back, but he was already trapped in the small space between the wall and the Broadwood. He set the wine bottle down so that he could touch the shape of his pistol beneath his shirt, tucked into the waistband of his pants.

And maybe it was knowing that someone was actually there, on the other side of the door, maybe finally accepting that it wasn’t only in his head… his fingers grazed the outline of the pistol but didn’t draw it.

The previous days flashed in his mind, the slow deterioration of all patience, all function. He’d blamed the haze of alcohol and week-long stomach ache from it, compounded by the filthy New Orleans heat. And the way it had made his heart ache, the way he yearned for Lestat’s visit, his laugh, his cool skin as relief from the sticky, damp air. He flashed on his comfort at dawn earlier that morning, knowing the voice would stop, fingers pressed to temples and tears sneaking through the corners of his eyes. Humiliating to think rejection could break him this way, to make him hallucinate his lover’s voice, and he hadn’t been willing to admit it. But now, with the figure at the door…

Something about Lestat, the effortless charm, the power in his touch. He’d maybe known that Lestat was different, another abomination of this place, and perhaps it made sense that he could be capable of this _sorcery_.

“Yes, Antoine, it’s me,” the voice out loud now. It was real, but damaged. Scratching and wounded in a way Antoine had never heard before. All sense of rejection, of hurt, of anger, washed away in a flood at the thought that something had happened, some real reason why he’d stayed away. And before he realized he was doing it he’d scrambled to his feet and crossed the room.

But when he opened the door…

It was Lestat, this he was certain of. He could tell by his height, and the shape of his shoulders, set as they were in shame. He’d flinched away from Antoine’s gaze, reached a hand to cover his face. And his _hand_. Stark white, more than usual, gleaming even through the layer of scum. Gray and slimy, pruning and scarred beneath the smears of mud and algae.

“What’s…” the revulsion kept him from an immediate embrace, but concern and pity won enough that he attempted to touch Lestat’s arm. Despite the gesture, Lestat recoiled, and his feet, soundless on the rough wood steps, made Antoine realize he wasn’t wearing shoes. _What’s happened to you?_

He held his hands out in peace, instead, not wanting to intrude. “Come inside,” he said, and stepped out of the way.

Blue eyes peeked out from in between the cracks of muddy fingers, and through the veil of twisted, dirty hair. Red rimmed and bloodshot but otherwise _Lestat’s eyes_.

Even having known that Lestat was strange, extraordinary, perhaps not-of-this-world, seeing him here was frightening. He shut the door behind them and watched the way the dull orange light of the lanterns flickered on his still-glossy fingernails, and all he could think was that Lestat was _unholy_.

Where was the wine?

He stepped backwards, too unsettled to turn his back, feeling Lestat’s eyes on him as he returned to the corner by the pianoforte and claimed the bottle from the floor. Still open, and the slug he took was big enough that it ached going down his throat. He didn’t remember Lestat ever sharing a drink with him, but this seemed like a good time to offer.

“I can’t drink wine,” Lestat mumbled, before Antoine could even ask. It sent chills up his spine.

Enclosed inside now he could he smell the damp coming off Lestat’s clothes, his hair. Fetid, musty smell, pungent like rotting vegetables and dank water. It somehow embodied everything he hated about this place.

The wine was settling him, though, taking the edge off the fear and reminding him to be polite. This was Lestat, after all. Lestat, who had done so much for him, given him everything he needed, and… it was shameful that the disgust had shocked him into inaction.

“Let me get you some clothes,” he said, and he moved to leave the room.

But the hand was on his wrist in an instant, and he dropped the wine bottle to the floor, not sure how Lestat had appeared beside him.

Cold hands, like always. But softer, damp, spongy as if water-logged. His heart raced, and he couldn’t breathe with the smell this close. The wine was pooling on the floor around their feet.

“Play for me,” Lestat said. His hair swayed away from his face, and Antoine could see every line, every bone, gaunt as death. _Unholy_. But he felt trapped in Lestat’s gaze, and his head was swimming, and he found himself nodding, agreeing.

 _What’s happened to you?_ He still wanted to ask, but a gentle, silent pressure was telling him it didn’t matter. The grip around his wrist loosened, but didn’t let go, came with him as he turned and crossed back over to the piano. Lestat let him go when he sat at the bench, but sank down to the floor beside him, resting his head on Antoine’s thigh like an obedient dog. Lestat’s hair was cold and moist and seeping into the fabric of his pants, and it made the hair rise on his arms.

His fingertips made an uncertain sweep across the keys, not quite sure where to land yet. _Compose for me_ , Lestat used to whisper in his ear, so close and sweet. And the music would ring in his head for the rest of the night, loop over and over as Lestat kissed him, touched him, laid his hands to all of Antoine’s most sensitive parts. Cool hands that hadn’t felt so unnatural before tonight.

But he settled on a newer piece, one he hadn’t shared yet. From the onset it felt angry, pained, perhaps that of a man neglected by his lover, jealous and insecure. His body rocked as he pounded into the notes, loud enough that he might expect complaints from the neighbors again. He grit his teeth and channeled the discomfort into the keys, as if he were shouting.

Lestat’s hand circled loosely around his ankle and pet up the back of his calf.  Gentle, and it felt like an apology.

It usually started like this.

Lestat, curling around him, stroking his shoulders as he leaned into each note. Kissing the outside of his ear, then biting it. Combing his hair back away from his face, fingernails grazing Antoine’s scalp just enough to give him chills.

The music was taking his mind off the smell of rot, the cold slimy flesh against his body. It filled his head so that there was no space for anything else, just feeling and memory and _love_.

“You remind me of someone,” Lestat said to him one night. The music was threading through the memory and he closed his eyes to stay there. In bed beneath the red tester, and his heart was pounding because Lestat had never come this close before. Into his very bed, and was idly twisting his fingers around a button on Antoine’s shirt.

“A good someone?” he asked. He forced a half smile, a weak attempt at flirting, not sure if the distant look in Lestat’s eyes meant that the memory was painful. His hand stilled for a moment, lost in thought, but finally he smiled and began to unbutton Antoine’s shirt.

“Yes,” he said. He pushed the fabric aside and leaned in to kiss Antoine’s chest. “The best.”

Cool lips around a nipple and Antoine arched his back. He ran a hand through Lestat’s rampant curls. “Should I feel jealous?”

He held Antoine by the hips as he rolled on top and settled between his legs. “No, _mon cher_ , he was from another life.”

And Antoine wasn’t thinking about the noxious smell of swamp rot in the present. He smashed at the keys until it went away, and thought about that first time again. Lestat had been so gentle, silently requesting permission with the tilt of his head as he unbuttoned Antoine’s pants. He’d lifted his hips from the bed to aid Lestat in pulling them off, and then Lestat just knelt there, watching him, hands rubbing up and down his thighs as he took in the sight.

“He was the last person I saw like this,” Lestat said quietly. There was reverence in his voice. His eyes went distant again, but then he seemed to shake himself out of it, and there was a bitter little laugh. “I suppose it’s untoward to discuss an old lover with the new one. Forgive me.”

 _The new one_. Antoine’s chest seized under the words.

“Tell me about him,” Antoine said. He tucked a rogue curl behind Lestat’s ear, out of his face. “What would he do for you?”

The question was, in Antoine’s own way, a request for instruction. A segue to figure out what Lestat might like, how might he be pleased. It was the least he could do, after all Lestat had given him, but the answer came by way of Lestat pushing his legs apart, and leaning down to press his mouth against the soft skin of his groin.

He’d noticed Lestat’s abnormally pointy teeth before, seen how sharp they looked when he laughed too hard. He felt them now, pressing dimples into his skin without breaking it, instantly soothed by the press of cold lips in their wake. His mouth trailed kisses across his dark, wiry hair, and his hand reached to touch Antoine’s balls. He licked beneath them, and rubbed his thumb against the taut skin of his perineum.

“He loved to do this to me,” Lestat said, and his cheek pressed against the inside of Antoine’s thigh as his hands traveled lower. His heart pounded harder and his cock twitched against his belly as he felt Lestat touch the most private part, soft, tracing a circle around it at first before both thumbs came down, gently stretching him apart. It made heat rush to his face, vulnerable and exposed but caught in the thrill of it, but Lestat’s tongue following shortly after made all thoughts grind to a halt.

There was music in his head.

It was slow at first, his tongue stroking slow and wide, and when Antoine began to relax into the bed he pressed inside. He traced circles against the inner rim, so that Antoine gasped, and he sucked at the edges, and let his hands travel lower to knead the plump mounds of Antoine’s ass.

Dizzying loops of songs in his head, ones he would have to write down later. He imagined the way Lestat might sit in the corner and scribble it all down as it poured from Antoine’s fingers and through the piano, the way the chime of the strings floated through the room. Even now, with Lestat’s damp hands rubbing up and down his leg, his brain felt lost in the fog of memories. Somehow the carnal was always entangled with the music, with Lestat. He wasn’t thinking about the dirty, wet clothes pressed against him, but the wet feeling of Lestat’s mouth working over him.

And then his fingertips, joining his tongue, teasing only to the first knuckle. The muscles in his legs tensed and almost came closed around Lestat’s shoulders. He was trying to find words, and gestured blindly towards the nightstand. _Oil, get the oil_ , he wanted to say, but somehow… somehow…

He couldn’t say what it was, except that he felt slick and wet, and Lestat’s fingers were going deep inside him and when he came up to kiss Antoine on the mouth he tasted coppery and sweet. There was a feeling like the noise outside was fading, the heat, the heavy air. There was only room for music and pleasure and his hips rocked down into a rhythm against Lestat’s fingers. The candlelight around the room lifted the blonde of Lestat’s hair, warmed the pale skin.

 _Beautiful_.

It was almost too much when Lestat lowered himself again to kiss the dripping head of Antoine’s cock. He stared up at tester--even in the dim light he could see every thread now, every stitch. He felt like he was floating there in all the red as Lestat sucked at him, scissoring his fingers as he lowered his head, wrapped his lips around the shaft. Cold, cold. But it was nice.

Somehow it didn’t matter that it was a relief anymore, he realized. He wasn’t sure where they were, couldn’t remember the filthy city outside, for once not feeling the intense chasm that lay between himself and his home. There were three fingers now, and he was being stretched, and he twitched around the intrusion as he felt the hard space at the back of Lestat’s throat.

“Lestat…” he moaned and reached for Lestat’s hair. He knew he was trying to ask Lestat to slow down, but his hands weren’t listening. He held Lestat in place and thrust up against him, hard, gasping against the sensations before relaxing back down to the bed. “Stop, Lestat, I--”

There was a slow drag of a tongue on the underside of his dick, and it twirled a circle around his head, probed playfully beneath the loose foreskin. “Hmm?” he finally said when his mouth was freed, and his fingers scissored open for emphasis.

“Please, I’m… I won’t last, please--”

“Please what?” he smiled and pressed his tongue into the leaking slit.

“I want you inside,” he whined. Lestat traced circles with his fingers so that Antoine tensed, shoulders coming up off the bed.

“I am inside,” he said, and his pointy teeth flashed in the smile. Then his head lowered again, and Antoine weakly pushed at his shoulders, but something was… happening… and he was hovering somewhere in space, it was all music and energy and the way Lestat was humming around him was vibrating all through his body.

And the teeth.

They didn’t cut, didn’t hurt, but he felt them there, felt the hard shape beneath the protective curl of Lestat’s lip, and when he thrust up again into Lestat’s mouth he could feel the release, shaking through his stomach, down to the bottoms of his feet, the tips of his fingertips. Lestat continued working his fingers inside Antoine’s body, coaxing all of it out until he was trembling, and he seemed so content as he swallowed it down. His head lifted and he lapped at it like a cat, holding him by the base with his other hand, and… Antoine could’ve sworn there were streaks of red on himself, and wondered if Lestat had cut his mouth on the sharp teeth.

He didn’t pull away until Antoine had tipped over the edge, until it was too much and he’d hissed. Lestat came up and caged in Antoine’s body, licking at his neck. He felt so dense and heavy, and Antoine weakly reached to touch between Lestat’s legs. It felt hard, but his whole body felt hard.

“Lestat,” he was panting. Lestat nibbled at his earlobe. “Tell me."

“Tell you what?”

“What can I do?” he wanted to look into Lestat’s face but could barely lift his head. His eyes were rolling up, tracing the patterns of the wood posters on the bed. He’d never noticed the intricacy before, the way the amber candlelight drew forth the rich colors. _Beautiful_.

“You don’t have to do anything,” Lestat said. He was licking around the swollen pulse beneath Antoine’s jaw.

“No,” he wanted to resist but everything felt too loose, too wrung out. He squeezed at Lestat’s bicep. “Please, tell me. What do you like? What would he have done to you next?”

His tongue stopped, and he went still. He kissed the corner of Antoine’s jaw so tenderly, like he was nervous.

“Tell me,” he urged again. He pried his eyes away from the ceiling and turned to look. Lestat was looking away, his lashes thick and heavy, eyes hooded. Fingers to his jaw and a thumb stroking across his lip finally made him come back. So blue, those eyes. Too blue. “What would he do? You must miss him.”

“Will you…” his brow creased for a moment. There was still a red stain on his teeth. Antoine raised his eyebrows, imploring.

“Anything, Lestat, tell me.”

“He would pull my hair,” quiet, almost too quiet. Unusually shy, and it made Antoine’s heart sing a little bit. “Would you... pull my hair?”

Easy enough, and Lestat’s face flared in pleasure-pain as he obliged. It was tentative at first, teasing, but the sweet way Lestat was purring made him push the boundary. He was certain that it was too much, it couldn’t feel good anymore, the way he clenched his fist around the bushy curls. But Lestat was moaning, the pitch of his voice going high and breathy.

“Just like that,” he said, and kissed at Antoine’s neck again. And it stung, somehow, and he wasn’t sure why. But Lestat was rubbing a hand across his chest, and petting his head, and he anchored himself by tugging at the blonde hair so that he wouldn’t drift away completely.

And that’s how it always was.

The song was coming to a close, and his chest was heaving in exertion from it, and Lestat’s damp hands were running up and down his thigh.

“It’s gorgeous,” he rasped, and then his palm was pressing hard against Antoine’s swelling erection. He hadn’t even realized, and he skipped a note as he looked down to watch it. Caked in filth, grimy. The lines of his knuckles were black with muck.

Disgusted, truly, but his body was responding nonetheless, and his rhythm was starting to falter.

Wrinkled, dirty fingers were popping open the buttons on his pants, and they looked even less natural when his cock sprung forward. Healthy and pink and pulsing, and when the cold touched him he finally pushed away from the piano, the song cutting off and silence sharp in the air. The bench clattered to the floor as he stood, too fast, and held his hands out to keep Lestat at a distance.

“What’s happened to you?” he finally managed to say out loud.

Lestat rose too quickly for Antoine to see, and the slimy hands were on his hips, fingertips sneaking beneath his shirt. It was power that normally charmed him, dragging him across a bed, flipping him over effortlessly. But now it felt menacing, chilling. Lestat spun him around so that his ass hit the piano keys, and the noise of it bounced off the walls.

“They tried to kill me,” he whispered. He pressed close. His clothes were leaving damp patches in Antoine’s shirt, mixing into where he’d spilled his wine. It made his whole body shudder.

“Antoine, you must help me!”

His mouth was at Antoine’s neck, like it usually was, and there was the vague, dizzying pain of it. Despite his own horror he reached to hold Lestat by the shoulders, ignoring the overpowering smell of mildew and rancid earth as he fought the swoon.

“Lestat…” he was moaning in spite of it, even against the way Lestat’s lips felt scaly against his throat.

Lestat’s hand reached for him again, more gentle than usual, maybe self-conscious. Eerie, that he could be colder than usual, icy, and for once it wasn’t soothing. His hand wrapped around Antoine’s cock, and despite the layer of sludge on his skin, once he was stroking up and down Antoine could feel how dry he was beneath it, how rough. A husk of himself.

But who tried to kill him? He let his weight down against the piano, going boneless in Lestat’s arms. He couldn’t mean…

 _They killed me,_ he said, his mouth still on Antoine’s neck but his voice coming out anyway, echoing through his brain the way it had been doing for the past three nights. His hand twisted up top around the head as he stroked and Antoine’s knees were going weak.

“Lestat…”

It was an instinct, nearing the edge, to reach for Lestat’s hair. But it was matted now, and his scalp felt so soft and sodden, weak. He feared pulling it, that it would come right out of his head.

No, no. _Be gentle with him_ , he thought, and opted to smooth it back the best he could. The white skin over his temples was splotched with refuse, making deep lines in the wrinkles, making the swollen lines of his veins pop out.

He knew then, and he stroked his thumb delicately over the jutting occipital bone. Unholy. Something else. And that stinging in his neck was the sharp teeth, and always had been. He could taste the loathsome wetness, coming off Lestat’s body in the heat like vapor, and he wondered if he’d known the whole time.

The answer was a striking rich pain, and Lestat was groaning as he bit down harder. _Teeth_. His own blood was hotter than the room, and it was mixing with the slime, the sweat, and Lestat’s thumb was tugging his foreskin down. He was whimpering beneath all of it, and stray notes burst from the piano as he twitched against it, and when he came he felt the warmth against the front of his shirt but not the wetness, because he was already too wet to tell it apart.

Lestat would usually stop here, let him go. Lick him clean and stay until he fell asleep. He’d drift off, sated and lost and thinking of song.

But the pain was burning, intense, and he could feel it traveling in bright red lines through his chest, his spine, heating in his face.

_Antoine, you must help me._

And this time he knew Lestat wouldn’t stop.

 


End file.
